Grace in Thine Eyes

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Davina’s teeth finally stopped chattering when she had on dry clothes and was seated by the hearth, combing her fingers through her hair. Had she ever been so wet in all her life?

  “Drink this,” Elspeth said, placing a hot cup of tea in her hands.

  Davina considered pouring it over her hair, simply for the warmth, but sipped it instead, breathing in the fragrant steam. She exchanged glances with the sisters, glad their mother had asked so few questions. Not because what they did was wrong, but because they were daft, thinking they could waltz up to the castle and see His Grace. The three of them were soon grinning at one another over their teacups.

  Reverend Stewart emerged from his study, blinking at the brightness of the kitchen. “Happy to see you safely home on this weatherful day.” He took his place at the head of the table and invited the household to join him, blessing the meal before they took their seats.

  Plates of muslin kale were served, rich with barley, and tattie scones fresh from the griddle. Davina consumed her supper with relish. Whatever fine meals the ducal kitchen might produce, they could taste no better than this.

  The minister dabbed at his mouth as their soup plates were removed. “We had a visitor not half an hour before you arrived home. A messenger on horseback. Did he pass you on the road?”

  Abbie sighed. “He passed us, all right, with his muddy hooves flying.”

  “What news did he bring?” Cate asked.

  Davina’s curiosity was piqued as well. The rider had seemed most intent on his mission.

  “He brought an invitation.” The minister held up a crisp card written in a fine hand. “From John Fullarton of Kilmichael.”

  Davina’s gaze met Abbie’s across the table. The dashing young officer.

  “On Thursday the twenty-third of June,” the minister read, “Captain and Mrs. Fullarton will host a dinner party for His Grace, the Duke of Hamilton, and his guests.”

  “A dinner! Surely …” Cate stared at the card. “Surely we are not … invited?”

  “Indeed we are, for our names are listed quite clearly. ‘The Reverend Benjamin Stewart, Mrs. Stewart, Miss Stewart, and Miss Abigail Stewart.’ ”

  Davina felt a twinge of jealousy but dared not let it show.

  As if she’d read her mind, Cate took up for her. “Father, we cannot leave Davina at home.”

  “No, we cannot.” Even his full beard could not hide his smile. “Our cousin will most certainly be included.”

  Davina gaped at him. Was such a thing permitted if her name was not on the invitation?

  His smile broadened. “Look at the card, Catherine.”

  Cate took it from his hands. “Oh!” She read aloud in a breathless voice, “And Miss McKie of Glentrool, with her fiddle.”

  My fiddle? Davina stared at the card in disbelief. She would be entertaining a duke?

  Reverend Stewart smiled at her warmly. “ ’Twould seem news of your exceptional talent has found its way to Kilmichael.” He reclaimed the invitation and tucked it inside his waistcoat. “I daresay His Grace’s company will be quite taken with you.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Far off

  his coming shone.

  JOHN MILTON

  Sir, I’ve polished yer brass buttons ’til they glent like stars in the nicht sky.”

  Somerled MacDonald turned, already smiling. “Well done, Mina.”

  The shy maidservant held up his dark blue coat. “Is thar oniething else ye’ll be needin’, sir?” Mina blushed as she said it.

  An invitation, lass? Somerled took the garment, then captured her hand and drew her closer. “My father is expected any moment. But in an hour, when the candles are snuffed—”

  A sharp knock and a sharper voice put an end to things. “Somerled!”

  Mina stepped away, averting her eyes. “I canna, sir,” she whispered, then hastened to open the door to the laird, curtsying before she fled the room.

  Sir Harry MacDonald filled the doorway, the crown of his silver head not far below the oak lintel, his shoulders blocking the light from the hall candles. He did not bother with a greeting. “Beguiling the lasses as usual, I see.”

  Somerled shrugged, tossing his freshly ironed coat onto the tester bed, where it landed in a heap. “ ’Tis not my fault you’ve decorated Brenfield House with bonny maids.”

  “And a valet who will press your coats whenever needed.” His father swaggered into the room, then frowned at the yawning leather trunk, empty except for a few cambric shirts. “Dougal has not finished packing for you?”

  “I asked him to wait until you and I spoke.” Somerled pitched his tone just so, neither overconfident nor desperate. After twenty-two years beneath the man’s roof, he’d learned how to handle Sir Harry. “Father, is it necessary that I accompany you tomorrow? Loch Fyne has salmon and trout enough for my taste.” Somerled did not state what his father already knew: He cared little for sporting ventures in drafty castles, preferring a private rendezvous with a wee dram, a good book, and a willing female.

  His father’s silver brows gathered like storm clouds. “Your name is mentioned in the letter of invitation. I’ll not offend His Grace by sailing to Arran without you.”

  “But more than a fortnight of angling—”

  “Aye, with the Duke of Hamilton!” Sir Harry thundered. “Have you no sense, lad? However ancient our name, we own naught but grazing moors filled with blackface sheep. Hamilton has titles, power, and wealth beyond counting. If such a man bids us join him—”

  “Fine.” Somerled cut him off. “I will go.” He needed no reminder that others had attained far greater rank. Hadn’t he heard that complaint all his life? Though his father claimed the title of baronet and extensive MacDonald holdings, including the mansion in which they would lay their heads this night, his riches and honors were never enough to satisfy the man.

  “See to your packing.” Sir Harry headed for the bedchamber door. “We take our leave at dawn.”

  Somerled grimaced; only six hours hence. “Do we sail from Tarbert?”

  His father paused in the doorway long enough to answer him. “Nae, from Claonaig. I’ll not waste more silver than necessary on a vessel.”

  Sir Harry was already halfway down the hall when Somerled laughed aloud, not caring if the man heard him. The expense had nothing to do with his father’s choosing the shorter sail to Arran’s northern harbor: Sir Harry suffered terribly from mal de mer and was too proud to admit it. His only son and heir, on the other hand, sailed the high seas like their Viking ancestors, his stomach calm, his legs steady on the deck.

  Now who is proud? Somerled ignored his nagging conscience and yanked on the braided pulley bell beside his bed, summoning Dougal. The sooner his trunks were packed, the sooner he might climb into bed. Alone, unless dark-eyed Mina changed her mind.

  Beyond his chamber, the last traces of evening sunlight gilded the smooth surface of Loch Fyne. His south-facing window afforded a fine view of the undulating blue hills along both shores and the distant waters of the Sound of Bute. On the clearest days he could see the Cock of Arran, the jutting northern curve of the island that protected Lochranza harbor, where they’d be met by the duke’s man and escorted to Brodick castle. Endless rounds of fishing would begin, with fresh trout and salmon on the table far too often and even less variety among the guests. Depressing, really, to watch grown men currying favor with the duke, like terriers licking their master’s hand, begging to be petted.

  A soft rapping at the door announced Dougal. “Do I pack, sir?” the valet asked, his English improving each season.

  Somerled would happily converse with the man in his native Gaelic, but his father wouldn’t hear of it. “The gentry of Edinburgh and London do not speak Erse,” he insisted. “Neither will it be spoken in my household.”

  When Sir Harry was not in the room, Somerled ignored his dictum. “Paisg,” he told his elderly valet, who quietly went to work folding Somerled’
s garments: coarser fabrics for climbing the hills and fishing during the day; and for evening at table, tail coats from Paris, snug breeches, and ornate waistcoats. Even in the bleak rooms of old Brodick castle, one did not appear at His Grace’s table improperly dressed.

  Somerled remained at the window, watching Dougal out of the corner of his eye. The balding man with his stooped posture and gnarled hands was an ideal valet, discreet in his manner and efficient in his duties. Had Dougal not tied his cravat to perfection before dinner? Tamed the waves in his hair? Pressed his coat lapels and shirt collar into smooth, neat points? A brief glance in the mirror confirmed his valet’s skills. Dougal would travel with them, of course. It was not done to arrive and expect the host to provide a manservant.

  Dougal looked up from the trunk, half-filled with clothing. “Inneal ciùil?” he asked, then stammered, “Ah … musical … instrument?”

  Somerled eyed the remaining space. “The wooden flute,” he decided, the other instruments in his collection being either too large or too fragile to transport safely. He would forgo certain pleasures for a few weeks; music would not be one of them.

  He claimed the long flute from the top of his dresser and fitted the instrument to his mouth, the light brown boxwood warm beneath his fingers. With little effort on his part, a plaintive melody floated through the air. Clear and round, low and masculine, the legato notes seemed to rise from the depths of his chest. Nae, from his very heart, though no one was the wiser.

  Dougal paused in his labors, closing his eyes. “Tàlantach,” he said softly.

  Gifted. Dipping his flute in acknowledgment, Somerled finished the melody, then placed the instrument in Dougal’s waiting hands, ready to be carefully packed among his clothing. He would manage without his flute during the journey itself, since he always took with him the most portable instrument of all: his voice.

  “Sing for me, lad.”

  Sir Harry did not look well, hanging on to the mast of the small vessel that had transported them halfway across the Sound of Kilbrannan. The man’s face was the color of seaweed discarded by an ebbing wave, his mouth clamped shut in a thin line, his gray eyes fixed on the choppy water.

  Somerled obliged his father at once, his tenor lifting above the salty breeze and the splash of the oars.

  The simmer is gane when the leaves they were green,

  And the days are awa that we hae seen;

  But far better days I trust will come again,

  For my bonny laddie’s young, but he’s growin’ yet.

  When the older man nodded, Somerled sang another verse of his mother’s favorite ballad, hearing her parting words as she bade them farewell. “Come home to Brenfield as soon as you can, for you know I’ll not sleep well ’til you return.”

  “Don’t be daft, woman,” Sir Harry had chided her as they stood in the front hall. “Do you fear you’ll not clap eyes on us again?”

  “Aye.” Lady MacDonald, accustomed to her husband’s gruff demeanor, had lovingly placed her hand on his arm. “That is always my fear when you cross the water. And so I shall pray until you are safely home.” They were not idle words; she would do exactly that—pray to Saint Brendan, the protector of sailors and travelers at sea.

  Somerled kept an eye on his father, even as Lochranza harbor came into view. “Almost there, sir.” Rising from the south shore of the bay, the gray ruins of a fourteenth-century tower house stood their ground. Recently abandoned, Lochranza castle still proved useful to approaching boats, offering them a point of reference. Gulls soared over the surface of the waters redolent of fish and shimmering in the afternoon sun.

  The skipper of their craft took up where Somerled’s ballad ended, filling the air with cheerful discourse meant to distract his sickly passenger. When the boat finally was rowed into the shallow harbor by the crew of able oarsmen, Sir Harry deposited his last meal over the bow, then leaned heavily on the wooden frame, gathering his strength.

  “Hoot! Ye’ll be feelin’ better afore lang, sir.” The skipper tipped his cap to Somerled when he paid for their passage, then helped father, son, and valet disembark without incident. “A guid visit tae ye,” he said cordially. “Howp ye’ll find time for a wee bit o’ climbin’. The peaks o’ Arran are ferlie.”

  “Aye.” Somerled gazed inland, beyond the marshy shore. Though he cared little for fishing and even less for climbing hills, the savage beauty of the mountains was undeniable.

  “Sir Harry? Mr. MacDonald?” A man with the look of a gamekeeper marched toward them, his tweeds stained with mud. “Walcome tae Arran.” He introduced himself, then loaded their trunks and helped Dougal into a two-wheeled cart. “I’ve horses for the raik tae Brodick. Yer kists an’ yer man wull follow ahint.”

  “Fine, fine.” Sir Harry waited impatiently by the offered horse until the man helped him mount. Then he said, “I imagine His Grace has a busy visit arranged for us.”

  “Aye, he does, sir.” With the gamekeeper leading the way, the men headed south on a slender track skirting the rushy water, bound for the steep glens ahead. “Captain Fullarton o’ Kilmichael Hoose has an evenin’ o’ entertainment planned for ye gentlemen as weel. On Midsummer Eve.”

  Somerled shifted in his saddle. “Entertainment?” Far more civil sounding than fishing poles and salmon nets. “Might that include music?”

  “A bonny fiddler, I’m told, though I dinna ken the lassie’s name.”

  For the first time that long and tiring day, Somerled smiled. A lass who played the fiddle. What saint might he thank for that generous provision on so festive a night? He mentally crossed the days off his calendar. “ ’Tis but one week away.”

  Twenty-Nine

  How still the morning of the hallow’d day!

  JAMES GRAHAME

  Davina awakened with the sun, rising when the first tendril of light slipped through the crack in the bedroom’s shuttered window. On the longest day of the year she resolved to embrace every minute, until the last rays of the sun disappeared over the summits toward Beinn Bhreac.

  Would this evening’s dinner party convene beneath the Midsummer Eve sky in all its painted glory? Or would the distinguished guests gather withindoors, seated round a crescent of chairs, waiting to hear Davina McKie of Glentrool play her fiddle? The thought sent a chill skipping along her bare arms. Tonight, of all nights, she needed the notes to pour forth with ease. She could not fathom all the talented violinists His Grace had enjoyed over the last sixty years—musicians from London and Paris and Vienna who had come to Hamilton Palace at his invitation. She was naught but a Lowland lass who treasured her grandfather’s generous gift. Please, heavenly Father. Let it be enough.

  Davina sat motionless on the edge of her narrow cot, not wanting to disturb the sisters, asleep in their shared bed. Three gowns hung from the clothes press, airing until Betty could iron them later that morning. Cate’s was a pretty silk in salmon pink with a matching fringed shawl, and Abbie’s a pale yellow satin with a fine chiffon yoke and ruffled sleeves. The smallest costume was hers, a red and green silk brocade jacket made of fabric her father had purchased in Edinburgh on Martinmas last, worn over a damask gown embroidered with an array of swirls in matching ivory silk. Her mother had knotted the last thread the day before Davina had left home.

  Mother. Davina’s throat ached as she pictured Leana humming while she stitched. ’Tis a loosome gown. Davina had tried it on to be certain the short jacket buttoned snugly beneath her bodice. Frothy lace circled the elbow-length sleeves, and a broad band of gold brocade edged the stand-up collar. Fit for a duke.

  Restless, Davina stood and made her way to the window, then peered through the gap between the shutters. Already the pale blue sky was growing brighter, the first rays of the sun having chased away the last of the twinkling stars.

  “We will leave for Kilmichael immediately following the four hours,” Reverend Stewart had announced yestreen, insisting they not depart without first having tea and scones.
Bless the man, he’d arranged two pony-drawn carts with drivers for the women, meaning to spare their hems and shoes from the muddy roads. Arran seemed to weather a brief shower every afternoon, often with the sun still shining. Davina had never seen so many rainbows—watery pastels arching across the sky for an instant, then fading from view.

  But rainbows meant rain, and rain meant drooping curls and soggy gowns. Please, Lord, not today.

  She turned toward the door, longing to slip down the stair. Locating one of her cotton gowns in the crowded clothes press would surely wake her cousins, yet she could not leave the room wearing her nightgown. In any case, it was far too early to venture out of doors and pluck violets from the lawn—one of her morning tasks—and Mrs. McCurdy would not serve breakfast on the sideboard for another two hours.

  Resigned to tarrying in their bedroom, Davina eyed the small packet of letters tied with one of her satin hair ribbons. She never wearied of reading them, hearing the writers’ voices as she scanned their words. On the top were a half-dozen letters from Mother. The most recent hinted at some news involving a neighbor; perhaps her next post would be more forthcoming. Will and Sandy’s two letters were filled with much gnashing of teeth over their lives in Edinburgh, as well as pointed inquiries about her welfare on Arran. They were furious with Father; that much was obvious. Davina had written the lads, assuring them she was well situated at the manse and not to worry. Rather like telling lions not to roar or bulls not to charge.

  Ian had written her on one occasion, the lines as neat and evenly spaced as a ledger sheet. She smiled at his careful script telling her all about Margaret McMillan. Her brother was truly smitten. Janet Buchanan’s letters were her favorites, brimming with parish gossip. Barbara Heron had a tooth extracted, poor girl. Andrew Galbraith was courting Agnes Paterson—Davina wouldn’t dare mention that to Will. Someone actually heard Graham Webster chuckling at market on Saturday last. And Jeanie Wilson delivered Mrs. McCandlish of another son.